


Your Teeth in My Neck

by tribunal



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Bloodplay, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Reader-Insert, Sexual Content, Vaginal Fingering, Vampire Bites, minor bloodplay not too much, reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:53:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25778464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tribunal/pseuds/tribunal
Summary: Fingers on your neck. A breath, exhaled warmly against the flesh there, only barely separating that pulsing, pounding vein from dagger-sharp ivories. “You’re certain?”An Ancient, a Mortal, and the blood pounding in too-fragile veins.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Reader, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 7
Kudos: 77





	Your Teeth in My Neck

**Author's Note:**

> I got really sick of looking at this even though it's been an idea plaguing me ever since I finished ShB. Please accept my humble offerings and know that, eventually, there's more to come.

Fingers on your neck. A breath, exhaled warmly against the flesh there, only barely separating that pulsing, pounding vein from dagger-sharp ivories. “You’re certain?”

You’ve approached him in the cool, misty morning of an otherwise unremarkable day, sunlight not quite daring to intrude on these hours between, where words unspoken fall fruitlessly into the air. The only time you’re able to mount up enough gumption, enough grit. So, you had leaned back, butt propped up on the windowsill, and asked (demanded) that he take of you. But, bold as you dare to be, even you have your limits. Once this hazy half-morning light passes, so will your will, you know it.

He had pressed chilled fingertips to your neck, following that pulsing, pounding vein with a steadiness in his gaze (and touch) you’ve not seen in the eyes of the other Ancients. Questioning. Curious. You tilted your head forward, further into the comfort of that touch, making a decision that hadn’t come lightly.

Now, his voice is a balm against the heat curling deep in your gut, the depth swathing mocking cuts against your ears. Somehow, wonder of all wonders, you resist the urge to snort. As though there could be any doubt, right now, right here. As though you didn’t come storming in here knowing exactly what you wanted from this creature, eons older than mankind’s first memory. You didn’t allow shame to give you pause when he peered at you over his glasses, unfolded those long, long legs and smirked, so certain to show a flash of fang as he beckoned you forward. The Ancient humoring the mortal. The snake in your garden.

He knew what you came for, naturally, or at least he’ll pretend to. So here you are, cradled curiously in the width of his arms, head held up by fingers too spindly for the strength contained within. There is no tenderness in such a grip, only a possession you won’t bother romanticizing as believing to be anything but. Charming.

Your voice is sure, certain of this as nothing else you’ve ever been in your life. “Give me what I want.” Mankind’s cockiness so deeply imbued in your voice, your affectations, the cant of your brow and the narrowing of your eyes. Call it Hydaelyn’s gifts to you, few of many.

His brow pinches, almost imperceptible--but you can’t blame him for not being as effortlessly chilly as Elidibus nor with such an imperious set to his features as Igeyohrm. Those traits are there, undoubtedly (he wouldn’t be an Ancient without them, you’d wager), but he’s had less interaction with this mortal shell, less practice on Hydaelyn’s children to appropriately mimic their expressions, _your_ expressions.

Less time to build an impenetrable mask.

But it does little to stop him, little to dissuade him from this so-simple task of driving you mindless, of chasing that desire that claws at you, screeches. Needy, heady. So it doesn’t surprise you, not entirely, when exasperation hits the skin of your neck before his tongue does, warm and wet in a way you didn’t know his kind could be. Blood drinkers. Ancients. Vampires, though whether that’s a slur or not is anyone’s guess, not your decision to make. This Ancient certainly likes it none, nose wrinkling with abject distaste when you said it in front of him, years of both horror movies and teen dramas alike ingrained--shamefully--in your memory. “Greedy human,” he says now—breath warm but skin icy—and you grit your teeth against the melting of something brazen in the pit of you. Yes, you are, and you’d never doubt your own desires as much as you’ve denied yourself this.

He needs to drink, to puncture skin as opposed to those lackluster synthetic blood pouches you’ve seen his kind drain every so often, sometimes with heat-spearing gazes tossed in your direction, dangerous looks not yet acted upon (control only goes so far, even with creatures such as these). You need to feel his teeth in your neck, a desperate, needy pain only imagined in your deepest dreams, where you know they cannot see you, cannot look at you with knowing glances and the glimpse of smirking fangs. You _know_ they know your desires, are aware the longing is so easily read from your face, as if flipping pages in a book.

And yet.

It cannot be helped. Stares cling to those ivories as though it would materialize that fresh pleasure bordering on the cusp of pain, that blooming ardor you’ve seen discussed in salacious detail on anonymous forums.

Not necessarily illegal, just not done in polite company, and with yards of red tape separating both the mortal and the Ancient from harm. Wise, ultimately a brilliant part on the Triumvirate’s part, but not what you want, not in the slightest. And if Hades...Emet-Selch...thinks you cheap for it, that’s neither here nor there. Your lifespan’s not long enough to let regret sink its claws deep into you. As far as you’re concerned, it’s a simple exchange, truthfully, made difficult only by the way you both continue to dance around your attraction to one another (yours to his teeth and his to the blood beating hummingbird-like in your veins).

His nostrils flare every time you enter his vicinity, though your interactions with the Ancient Architect are few and far between, so either he cannot stand the trace amounts of your body wash lingering, lingering.

Or, he’s hungry for you. This reciprocation, your eager desire.

It’s strange at the core of it. Strange, but nice.

Nice to be wanted.

Nice to feel needed.

Now--in the here, in the moment--he plays at keeping calm composure (ever careful), but his breath comes out in pants, shallow and shallower still, tongue tracing idle patterns where you and he both know full well your carotid calls loudest.

“Play coy all you want.” The gulp you take feels too loud in the relative quiet, the broad swallow bumping against the raw angularity of his nose. “You’re just as hungry.” Your eyes meet his, both sets blown out with abject lust you’re still managing to take figure-eight loops around, dodging and diving in manners nowhere near as graceful as you’ve fooled yourself into thinking. “You’re just as needy.” Wasting time you don’t have, these hours before dawn shedding harsh light on every action. But the build-up is always worth it in the end, even as the Architect gives you a look just bordering on feral.

_How long,_ you wonder, hand bracing against his shoulder, inhalation shuddery. Want leaks from your every pore, a needy pile of flesh. _How long has it been since he’s had a willing feast laid out before him, a vein to bleed? No synthetic crap or dull-eyed animal flesh parting underneath wanting teeth. Does it shatter his pride as an Ancient?_

_Does that change how you feel?_

“Eat me, Emet-Selch.” Doubts shoved to the wayside, you crane your neck further, further still, uncaring how eager this makes you seem, how breathy your tone’s gotten. You can play at haughtiness, skills only improved the more time has passed with these ageless beings--framed in time like quartz--but curiosity burns fire along your senses, sets you aflame.

Such fire is fickle, spreading from you to him, just as heady as that hunger setting your will to ashes. You can see, pinpoint the exact moment a carefully-prepared retort dies on Emet-Selch’s perpetual smirk, your huffed-out words connecting to something more hindbrain than man deep within him. But that smirk--so much like his barbed words--dies, bleeds into something ravenous, dark and needy. Unsightly, such a lack of restraint, but it doesn’t stop that warmth from within heating further, tongue darting out to wet suspiciously dried lips.

“You’re cold.” An understatement, his touch chills in a way you cannot fathom, a bottomless freeze. “Let me warm you up.”

The fingers of one of your hands goes to his hair, plays with the stark white strands there, rubbing fine silk between your fingertips for as long as he’ll allow you. A breath catches in his throat, a shuddery exhalation. Amber eyes close, lashes brushing against his cheekbones before opening once more. In that scant moment, mere seconds before you’re devoured, you think he could almost be an angel, could believe all those trashy rumors about the origins of the Ancients, that they’ve fallen from Hydaelyn’s heaven to reign in Zodiark’s hell.

But then his eyes reopen, his teeth brushing against your pulse, an “alright” escaping wide-open mouth before there is pressure, both in your neck and the clenching of your cunt, spasming around the nothing within. 

The forums do not mention this part and are careful to dance around it, the part that would sway others (but not you, never you), the inevitable pain. Of _course_ there is pain, the sort of pain that’s glossed over in novels and television, but--more importantly--there is _pressure._

Pressure. So much, neat-insurmountable and catching you unawares. Pain bleeds into a fuzziness that bursts, star-shapes piercing at the edges of your limited vision, bright colors you have no proper names for, aren’t sure you could fathom even if hard-pressed, gun to your head. You inhale, sharply, through your nose, one hand coming up to cup at the back of his, the other clutching the windowsill behind you for purchase, some clemency you won’t get from the beast in front of you. Black-out curtains hide the outside world from view, narrow that world down to you and the Ancient you’re seducing, not with swaying hips nor cultured tongue, but with that violent red beating beneath your skin.

Whether an aversion to sunlight is a weakness in truth or yet another superstition gleaned from brain-rotting television dramas is anyone’s guess, doesn’t seem like a smart time to ask, frankly. Not when that pressure, that feeling of disconnect with your own body (as though this were happening to someone else, another time, another place, outside of you) tips headily over--hesitant--into pleasure.

_Pleasure._ Blooming from six inch daggers in your neck, saliva pooling from them to the dual wounds, sweeping around the blood he’s so eagerly pulling into his mouth with strong swipes of greedy tondue. _Pleasure_ while you swallow, spit feeling oddly bloated while he’s got your neck grasped in his jaw. Fuck.

_There._ Building slowly at first, tide flickering at your feet before pulling you in, sweeping you under. You clutch uselessly at him, arm propping your weight buckling before Emet-Selch leans further forwards, standing to his full height and looming over you--a Herculean task made simple--, taking over the task of keeping you on your feet.

(Fear tickles at the edges of your consciousness. _Were you really so foolish to think you’d be anything other than a morsel? He could consume you whole and there isn’t even the barest of contracts keeping you safe. Stupid, foolish desires, you’re held captive, a slave to the clenching in your groin._ )

But you can’t be made to see sense (not fully), not when the pounding in your neck matches the flush at your groin, throbbing. Needy. Just as needy as he is, this was your idea after all.

No regrets. Too late for that.

You can’t speak, whimpering sounds falling from you—unbidden, unnecessary—Emet-Selch pulling those from you just as surely as he’s pulling life from your veins. With each twitch of tongue, there is an answering throb of _want_ , heady desire hot and heavy against the bold of your clit.

The forums—again—were hush-hush about this part of it, almost matronly, near-condescending about how “the experience is a euphoric one, not a sexual one”, but that’s coeurlshit. Play holier-than-thou all you want, but don’t deny that pleasure lighting up every synapse in your brain and call it platonic. And you had hoped there was more to it than that euphoria, than the flash of light and feeling behind your vision before settling into the most humbling sleep of your scant years. Desperately, you wanted that fast burn of _everything_ , of pain and pleasure and greed and all that’s in-between.

It’s naivete, you’re so keenly aware. Foolhardy to want so much while expecting only a spot of blood for the desire’s sake. Let him take from you, the stubborn mind says, you’re taking from him as well. Equivalent exchange without all the mess getting in the way.

Real life is so rarely like movies, so rarely as cliched. But you’ll admit to your failings, admit there’s a part of you that was hoping it’d be...more of this. All neck bent and shivering hands and wetness soaking you through. Cliched, yes, but a reliable one, as tried and true as anything as any right to be. 

He pulls back, tongue darting--near-rakishly in the cool light--tasting his teeth, a fresh sheen of blood coating those too-white ivories. _Your blood._ Something erotic about that, something dark and desirous you won’t (can’t) put a name to. You could cum from the visual alone, could drip wetness and coax him to _take, eat, this too is my body._

Something you wouldn’t typically dare. But. You see that look in his eyes, splintered amber cut through with sharp desire, and something jolts you, brings you to life as surely as he draws it from your body. The hand bracing you against the window trembles, weight supported in your arm too much for only a moment, everything feeling oppressive, too _much_ for scant seconds. The Ancient feasting upon you shudders as if possessed, leans back in, mouths useless words against your neck, worshipping the red in your veins, stickily coating your skin. His hand on the back of your head grips--tightly--before going slack once more. His touch has been scarce aside from the pressure of him holding you up against him, fangs coaxing your carotid, but that doesn’t change how achingly _close_ you are.

A thought occurs. Would he be able to...satisfy you in the mortal sense of the term? Is he (Hydaelyn forgive you for asking, forgive you for _all of this_ ) capable?

Fuck capability. Is he willing?

The question tangles at the tip of your tongue, half-swollen between desire and need and unspoken save the rutting of your hips. That hungry _please please please_ that cannot make it past your lips.

Some gracious goddess has pity on your poor, poor, horny soul and relays the message of your eagerness to Emet-Selch, for the hand that isn’t supporting your head walks down your body, idly roving down your chest to stuff pianist’s (architect’s) fingers in your jeans, tracing the edges of your panties before flicking to the side with decades--nay, centuries--of practiced ease.

Dextrous movements. Beneath his hands, you crumble, burn finely to a molten crisp of needy, needy mortal. Beneath his touch, you wilt, your petals fully bloomed--seeking more of his touch. Nectar flows freely from you, this plant metaphor gone too far.

Heated gaze flicks to you, awaiting approval he should surely not need now, not with you pliant and moaning shamelessly against him, your teeth gnawing in the plushness of lower lip and furiously nodding head more than enthusiastic enough. You have to be such a sight, crimson coating your neck and eyes red from squeezing them shut so hastily, drool pinching the corner of your mouth.

Would he clean that, as eagerly as he’s cleansed your veins of blood? If you open your eyes fully (careful, be cautious now), would you see he’s swapped one hand with another, brought his fingertips to bloodied lips to taste what else there is of you?

“Please.” It’s like pulling teeth, the word escapes you with such force. “It’s...Damn you, it’s _rude_ to keep a thrall waiting.” You know he doesn’t give a damn for rudeness, doesn’t give a damn for most of your mortal hangups, but--in this darkness--you can almost pretend he’s a lover, an immortal, ageless lover, but one nevertheless.

Silly.

When Emet-Selch’s fingers reach inside you (inside! inside!), you see white. Dancing at the edges of your vision before overwhelming you completely, back bowing and a screech you hadn’t known your vocal cords could even emit summoned from the depths of you, where you are--in fact--the most human. Like he has something to prove, he chases after you, bending you over so the sweat from your brow touches his, breath mingling in the only marriage you’ll be allowed. His voice is strained, cold even with all the friction between the two of you, as imperious and demanding as ever.

(Some things are simply not allowed change.)

“ _More.”_

(A man starved, you the first bit of sustenance he’s had since eons. Who dare know the date or the hour?)

When he desires “more”, an innocuous thing, what more does he expect? He’s laid you out as though you were posing for _The Death of Marat_ , slurped carmine from your veins, dipped fingers in your honey as though he’s no fear of stingers.

And yet, more?

_And yet, more?_ Of course, an Ancient doesn’t become an Ancient by resting on their laurels, being content when _more_ is out there.

He curls his fingers deep within and rational thought is lost. Your eyes fall open, wide, lash-lined, pupils blown and breath shallow. His voice is too low, too much akin to gravel and right in your ear: “ _More.”_

His fingers are frenzied, knobby knuckles hitting angles you hadn’t realized were spots inside you, the euphoria from the twin wounds on your neck acting as a divining rod to your most tender places. You can feel his eyes on you, teeth slipping on lower lip, pushing down too hard, drawing blood.

That piercing gaze turns to the bead of blood bubbling from your lip, following the crease to drip down your chin. He snarls, actually _snarls_ , a feral sound that reminds you too keenly of the fact that he is not of your world, will never be.

Instead of freezing you, making you close your legs and deny him access to your most intimate places, you can feel sick fluid drip from inside you, can feel his overlong digits (as though they have another joint in them, unnatural even in this) squelch against skin, slickened and wet, pushing further in those ever-tightening muscles. Another curl of his fingers, another helpless keen from you, more sounds you wish to Hydaelyn above and Zodiark below you’ll never be lucid enough to remember.

Your arm unfolds, fingers dig in his flowing strands of silver, pull him towards you further while hips grind helpless circles against the intrusion of his digits. Babbling pleas, praises fall from your lips, something half-thought and embarrassing about how _deep, deeper, you want him deeper, until there are imprints of his fingers molded deep within your cunt._ Words that shake him, violently pull a shiver from that untamed side of him, make him snap his teeth in the air next to you--a futile effort that still manages to make you clench around him, sweetness soaking him further.

A concern for another time, this apparent attraction to danger. Preferably when you can string two brain cells together, synapses clicking, coherent thought. His fingers, deep within you, curl up, abusing that sensitive spot within you until you’re outright clinging to his hair, inhaling shaky, shuddery. That sound comes from in the back of his throat again, needy, so much like you despite the eons of differences. So you grip harder, pull until you feel a few threads of silver give against your scrabbling fingers. His head tilts, seeking out further of that stimulation, a purr bubbling in his throat even as he plies noises from you certain to rouse the other members of the Convocation.

And what would they do to you, finding you blood-soaked and whimpering, begging their Architect to _fuck me harder, damn you, give it to me, give me what I want?_ Would they descend upon you likewise, all sneering smirks and clever tongues?

How much could you take if a single Ancient is enough to drive you to mindless pleasure? Would they take their cuts of you, teeth taking their cut of flesh until you’re a doll, pliant and too blissed-out to do naught but consent? Would they touch you with this same brutal need, this same jackhammering of fingers against your g-spot, this same _oh gods oh fuck he’s got his thumb on your clit again you’re gonna cum you’re gonna cum you’re gonna cu-_

Pleasure spikes, hits you harshly. Your back arches, eyes roll in the back of your head--sightless, white flames licking at the edges of your vision--before slumping back over, worn. Useless.

The sadist above you pulls his fingers from you none-too-gently, causing your fist to clench in his hair, matching sighs coming from the both of you. His fingers immediately go to his mouth, watching you with still-hooded eyes as he laps at the nectar (shamefully) dripping down those overlong fingers.

A stillness settles over the both of you; you, with your chest heaving with exertion; he, with voidsent tongue flicking idle patterns between his fingers. Something imperceptible passes between the two of you, something unbidden but sweet.

You now have a newfound appreciation for those yammering biddies on the forums.

The Ancient’s tongue flicks out between reddened lips, mouth gapes wide to swipe that tongue along the pointed tip of ivories. There is still heat in that cold, cold gaze, banked but warming you. Again. And again, you’d suppose, now that he’s a taste.

He steps away from you, a sudden picture of ageless poise, and, despite the utter lack of blood running reckless through his veins, it is colder without than with.

“Later.” He murmurs, and you aren’t certain whether it is more a threat or a promise. “Later. My mouth instead of my hands.”

You’re such a picture of sodden, sopping disarray and yet his words stir you, albeit weakly. “Y-Yeah. I can do that.” Former confidence gone, you’re only barely putting yourself together when the Ancient is back to stern dismay, put together and shut away.

And if the others can scent your blood, your _abundance_ in the air later, in the afternoon, they very kindly refuse to comment.

**Author's Note:**

> I remade my Tumblr because I cannot control myself. [Say hi?](https://voidbait.tumblr.com/)


End file.
